Blackmailed Down The Aisle. Louise Fuller

when she was digging in her heels.

      His fingers twitched and suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to reach out and touch the curve of her cheek, then carry on touching, his fingers sliding over the soft skin of her throat, then lower still, to the swelling curves of her breasts and waist—

      He felt his body jerk to life—muscles tightening, groin hardening.

      Sitting watching the camera footage of her breaking into his office, he’d thought she was beautiful but greedy—a woman who didn’t believe the rules applied to her. And it had angered him so much that for reasons he didn’t want to examine, he’d broken with protocol and convinced his security team to let him deal with her personally.

      Only now here she was, clutching his phone like an amulet to ward off evil, and he couldn’t seem to hold on to his anger. At least not the vindictive, punitive kind. Instead—and he really couldn’t explain why—he felt wound up, and almost irritated by her reckless stupidity.

      Had she really thought she could get away with it?

      Then she was not only foolhardy but utterly deluded; there was no way he would ever have fallen for her lies.

      Except that he would have done.

      His muscles tensed as the truth hit him square in the chest: if he hadn’t watched her breaking in he would have believed every word, trusted each hesitant glance. She would have had him eating out of her hand.

      The thought should have repelled him, but instead he felt his pulse accelerate, the blood humming inside his head, as slowly, miraculously he realised that maybe—just maybe—he had found a way to change James Dunmore’s mind.

      Gazing blandly over at her, he shrugged. ‘Obviously I’d love to hear your views on social housing some other time, but right now I think we should talk about you.’

      There was a startled pause. She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Why?’

      He shrugged. ‘I’m curious. What do you do when you’re not breaking into offices?’ he said softly.

      ‘Why do you care?’ she snapped. ‘You’ve clearly made up your mind that David and I are some of kind of Bonnie and Clyde. Nothing I say is going to change that.’

      ‘Try me,’ he said lazily. ‘I can’t say for sure that it’ll change anything. But what have you got to lose?’

      Holding her breath, Daisy watched in mute fascination as he reached up and undid the top button of his shirt, tugging the dark green tie loose to reveal a triangle of sleek golden skin.

      Angry, Rollo Fleming was formidable, but she was just starting to realise that anger was not the most effective weapon in his armoury. His charm was far more lethal. And when the chill and distance left his voice he was at his most dangerous.

      ‘You said earlier you weren’t interested,’ she said stiffly.

      ‘And you said earlier I didn’t have a heart.’

      His gaze rested on her face—cool, unblinking, unreadable—and her own heart skipped a beat.

      ‘So what are you saying?’

      ‘I’m giving you an opportunity to redeem yourself. And David, of course.’

      Rollo could see she was tempted by his words. He could read the conflict in her eyes, her distrust of him battling with her impulse to protect her brother. He waited, knowing the value of both silence and patience, until finally she sighed.

      ‘There’s not much to say. I’m twenty-five. I live with my brother, who’s my twin. And I’m a waitress.’ Her eyes flared. ‘Just a waitress. But not through choice. I’m actually an actress, only I’m between jobs at the moment.’

      There was a sharp, complicated silence.

      ‘That’s it.’ She looked up defensively. ‘I told you there wasn’t much.’

      Rollo studied her in silence. There was a flush of colour on her cheeks and her eyes were daring him to prove her right.

      ‘Depends on your definition of “much”,’ he said smoothly. ‘A half-point swing in my commodities portfolio could cost me millions of dollars.’

      Daisy stared at him warily. Something was happening around her, silent and unseen.

      She narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you want?’

      The corners of his mouth curved upwards into a tiny satisfied smile.

      ‘Let’s just say that I think I’ve found a way for all of us to move on from this unfortunate incident.’

      A fresh fear rose up inside her. ‘I’m not going to have sex with you, if that’s what you mean. I’d rather sell my kidneys!’

      ‘I believe the norm is only one.’ He stared at her impassively, his green gaze colder and harder than any emerald. ‘And don’t flatter yourself, Ms Maddox. I like a woman in handcuffs as much as the next man, but not when the only reason she’s wearing them is because she’s been arrested.’

      She bit her tongue. ‘So what do you want, then?’

      He scrutinised her for a long moment, almost as though he were trying to see through her or past her. It made her feel taut, trapped—vulnerable, a deer gazing into the headlights of an oncoming car.

      Finally he smiled—a smile that tore the breath out of her.

      ‘I want you to be my wife,’ he said softly.

      There was a moment of pure, absolute silence.

      She gazed at him in shock, trying to catch up. The last few hours had proved unequivocally that Rollo was a cold-blooded megalomaniac, but now it appeared he was also utterly and irrefutably insane.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I think I must have misheard you. I thought you said—’

      ‘That I want you to be my wife.’ His eyes flickered over her stunned expression. ‘You heard correctly.’

      Breathing out unsteadily, she lifted her hand to her forehead, as though to ward off the insanity of his suggestion.

      ‘What are you talking about?’ she managed.

      It must be some kind of trick or trap—another way to make her look stupid and feel small. She stared wildly round the room, hoping to find some explanation. But turning back to meet his gaze she felt a shudder of alarm ripple over her skin.

      He was being serious!

      She stared at him incredulously.

      ‘You barely know me. And we hate each other. Why would you want to marry me?’

      He paid no attention. ‘Why don’t you sit down and we can talk about it properly?’

      He was just like a politician, she thought desperately. Answering a question with a question. Ignoring what he couldn’t answer or didn’t want to discuss.

      She opened her mouth to protest but he was already walking past her, and as she watched him take a seat behind the huge glass-topped desk she felt her ribs expand. He looked calm, relaxed, as though he often proposed marriage to young women who broke into his office in the early hours of the morning. But his eyes were alert and predatory, like a wolf watching a lamb stumble around in its lair.

      ‘Come on. Sit down. I don’t bite.’

      It wasn’t an invitation. It wasn’t even an order. It was a dare.

      She lifted her chin.

      ‘Fine. But I can’t see what difference talking will make. Nobody marries a complete stranger.’

      Sinking into the soft leather, she felt the tiredness of the last few hours rise up beneath her skin in a wave as, lounging back in his seat, he stared past her, in a way that suggested he was pondering some deep philosophical question.

      ‘Is